Bad Moon Rising
by CokeBottleK
Summary: Sansa Stark is a daughter of Winterfell, trapped in King's Landing. Arthur Pendragon is a man of the Kingsguard, devoted to his future queen.
1. Prologue

_Greetings, all! This is a little project I started on AO3 (username kattymaj), then promptly forgot about in the midst of life. I decided to throw it up here to keep it with the rest of my in-progress fics. If you're so inclined to read, I hope you enjoy!  
_

 **SETTING:** _GOT, S2. Events will differ to accommodate the inclusion of_ Merlin _characters. Inspired by YouTubers **chloeclee** 's and **prideandprejudice05** 's Sansa/Arthur videos._

 **DISCLAIMER:** _If you recognize it, I didn't make it up._

 **FACT OF LIFE:** Sansa _Stark is QUEEN._

* * *

 **1.** **PROLOGUE**

* * *

"You're a Kingsguard. Your vows are for life."

"I don't need to be reminded."

"Are you sure?" The Imp tilts his head, then shrugs. "Well. You could have fooled me, Pendragon."

Arthur keeps his gaze on the window and his arms crossed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't?" There's the head tilt again; Arthur can practically hear it by now. "Well that's something. Tell me, what is it that keeps your attention out in the yard?"

"Nothing's keeping my attention," Arthur snaps. He'd meant to be dismissive, but Tyrion has a way of riling anybody up when he wants to. "I'm not looking at anything."

"Now that's no way to talk about our… guest, is it?"

Arthur snorts. He can't help himself. Anyone else might think it's a humorous sound, but those who know him know better — it's nerves. Tyrion's got him backed in a corner, but Arthur won't admit it to him.

"What exactly are you getting at, Lannister?"

"You'd do well to watch your step," Tyrion advises, "lest you want Cersei to know where your loyalty lies."

Arthur is hard-pressed not to grit his teeth. "My loyalty is to my king."

Tyrion swishes the wine around in his cup. "Or your queen."

"My queen?" Arthur snorts again, an almost panicked sound as he dances around Tyrion's gentle taunts. "What affections could I possibly have for the Queen Regent? Come now, Lannister — "

"Oh, I didn't say anything about _regent._ " The Imp swigs his wine now, evidently satisfied with himself. "Incidentally, _that_ queen isn't blind, you know. She'll figure it out, if she hasn't already."

"There's nothing to figure out." Arthur straightens, unfolds his arms only to lean one against the window, using it to block his face from Tyrion's view as he continues to watch exactly who Tyrion had accused him of watching. "I haven't done anything."

"But would you? That's the question."

"I'm a knight of the Kingsguard, as you've already pointed out. Astute, by the way."

"Yes," Tyrion says with his characteristic gusto, "you are, and at Cersei's decree, no less. How do you think she'd thank you if you failed to protect her beloved son?"

Arthur really does grit his teeth this time, and speaks through them, "I've no intention of failing to protect the king."

"Very well," Tyrion says, unconvinced. "Allow me to present you a scenario — "

"I'm not interested in playing games, Lannister," Arthur snaps. He finally turns to face his tormentor. "You've presented me your scenarios before, and again I'll remind you that I'm not the only Kingsguard — there are plenty of us to keep both the king and his lady safe. It won't be a choice between the two."

"No, I suppose not," Tyrion concedes. He swishes his wine a little more. "But who keeps the lady safe from her king?"

"She has nothing to fear from him," Arthur lies, and he knows it.

As does Tyrion, who laughs without mirth. "My accursed nephew is, for all intents and purposes, the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. _Everyone_ has something to fear from him." Tyrion takes a long draw of rich red wine. "No one more so than Lady Stark. She is his."

"She is no one's."

"Least of all yours." Tyrion raises his cup in Arthur's direction. "Keep your sword out of the king's back, Pendragon. There are better men to take charge of the Stark girl's safety."

Arthur is about to protest, but Tyrion cuts him off. "The Starks are our enemies, despite the betrothal, which means little now that Joffrey's taken Ned Stark's head. Sansa is our prisoner. Your loyalty lies with her captors. That is the vow you've taken, no matter how much you've regretted it since you saw her."

"You've had an awful lot to drink today, haven't you, _my lord_?"

"I always have a lot to drink." Tyrion straightens in his seat, proud of this admission. "It's how I concentrate."

"Do me a favor and concentrate on something else."

Tyrion shrugs, unaffected. "Just trying to keep you alive, Pendragon."

Arthur turns away from him again, leans against the windowpane. His eyes find her instantly; it's like picking a bloodstain out of a crisp white sheet.

 _Just trying to keep you alive..._


	2. Two Ravens Sitting In a Tree

**2.** **TWO RAVENS SITTING IN A TREE**

* * *

Sansa still wears her hair like a Southern lady.

She tries not to think about Septa Mordane's disapproval — or, perhaps more accurately, her disappointment. Disapproval was one thing; sometimes Sansa even antagonized the old woman for the fun of it. But she'd always hated to disappoint her septa.

But now the old woman is a dead woman, and her head is mounted next to Lord Eddard Stark's. Chased down like animals, imprisoned and cut apart… As if she had never been a woman of the gods. As if he had never been a soldier, a lord, a Hand. As if she had never been a mentor. As if he had never been a father.

Every morning Sansa thinks about them like this. It's a ritual, a survival tactic. She thinks about them before she gets out of bed, and doesn't think about them for the rest of the day.

She goes to the godswood and thinks about the family she's got left.

She wears a black gown but doesn't dare to grieve more than that. Her hair goes up in braids like the women's at court. She eats when her handmaidens insist, and doesn't resist when the queen is near. She smiles at Princess Myrcella, humors Prince Tommen, endures Joffrey. She lies to them all, but the Lannister children hardly notice. She lies better in the queen's presence, and in Lord Tyrion's.

She can't trust any of them — not when Joffrey promised her mercy and then gave her her father's head.

The Red Keep makes her uneasy. The detached heads of House Stark line the battlements in gruesome decoration. The women whisper about her traitorous family. The men leer and spit in her wake. The knights she used to worship as heroes would kill her if Joffrey wanted them to. Meryn Trant has already made her bleed.

Sansa sits beneath the godswood and wonders what her life is worth.

She stares at her reflection in the pond before her. There's a pond like this beneath the godswood at Winterfell; if she stares at it long enough, it's almost like she's home.

But her eyes were never this heavy at Winterfell. Her skin was never this pale, her mouth never this sorrowful.

She does not cry, but her eyes redden, anyway.

"My lady."

Sansa's head jerks upward, away from her sorry reflection. In its stead is a young man, strong-jawed and bright-eyed, his golden head bowed slightly towards her in a gesture of respect. Though what he respects Sansa can't say. He is a knight of the Kingsguard, despite the plainclothes he wears now, and no man of Joffrey's would deign to respect her.

But he is new — Ser Barristan's replacement, no doubt — so perhaps he doesn't know.

"Ser." Sansa inclines her head but doesn't bother to stand. She hopes he'll leave her soon. "Are you here to pray?"

"No, I'm afraid not," the young knight replies. "I don't believe my family has any gods."

"Ah." Sansa doesn't believe much in any gods anymore, either, but thinks it best not to mention this aloud. "Have you come to fetch me for the king?"

"No," he says, and his voice is sharp, but softens when he continues. "I have come for you, my lady, to say I'm sorry for your loss."

Sansa turns away as sharply as the knight's voice a moment ago. "My father was a traitor."

She sees her reflection say the words, and hates herself.

"I've heard that he was a good man."

"I'm sorry, ser, but I've never been acquainted with you before, have I?" Sansa says, as if he hadn't said a word about her father. "I'm afraid I haven't caught your name at court."

Truth be told, Sansa's senses are deadened at court. But she's sure she must have missed this knight's appointment to the Kingsguard. He looks like the kind of knight all of her old favorite songs were about… She would have known not to trust him. But she doesn't remember him much at all.

"Ser Arthur Pendragon," he tells her, and now he's kneeling next to her on the damp grass by the pond. His breath hits her ear with every word. "My vows were... abrupt. The Queen Regent was eager for my duties to begin, all things considered."

 _Things,_ Sansa thinks. _Those must be the four armies that are after her son_ 's head.

As if one more man could stand in their way.

But she is a lady, and a lady must remember her courtesies. So she says, "I'm sure you're well-suited to the position."

"I can only hope to serve you well, my lady." Arthur's head remains bowed as his hand touches hers.

Sansa's fingers twitch. "Your duty is to your king, ser."

"And to you."

"A traitor's daughter is not worthy of such protection, nor loyalty." Sansa rises as quickly and gracefully as possible. "We reap what we sow. I am grateful to my beloved Joffrey for looking past my family's errs."

Arthur remains kneeling in the damp grass before her. Sunlight drenches his golden hair, and he looks like a beacon. "I did not mean to offend — "

"You haven't."

His hand touches hers again, this time grasping it so she can't run away.

"My vows were for you, as much as they were for him." His grip tightens, if only for a moment, but Sansa feels it in her bones. "I swear it."

His hand slips away from hers. Sansa nods, musters a curtsy, and hurries off without making it look like she's hurrying at all.

She is a lady. And a lady must remember.


	3. And Who Will Fall Far Behind?

**3.** **AND WHO WILL FALL FAR BEHIND?**

* * *

If anything can be said of Cersei Lannister, it's that she is a shrewd woman. Often paranoid and quick-tempered (although she'd never admit that, even if she knew), she is perceptive; one look at you, and she knows what you want.

Take her family, for instance; Robert had wanted another woman, and he replaced both her and his wife with dozens upon dozens of others — faceless replacements for what he would never have. Joffrey wants power and little else, certainly not the responsibility that comes with it. her father wants Jaime for an heir; he would prefer Tyrion dead. ( _Wouldn't we all...?_ she often wonders.) Tyrion wants wine and whores and the chance to make Cersei's life a burden, a curse. And Jaime... Jaime used to want her, but it had been so long since she had looked at him... He's a prisoner of war now. She tries not to think of it. She doesn't have time for wistful thinking, for pining.

She can't trust anyone. Too many people want her son dead, her family in upheaval and disgrace, and she can't pave the way for their enemies just because she can't stop thinking of her brother. She might as well hand them the Iron Throne.

It's what they want. Even if Cersei couldn't tell by the look of them — Ned Stark's accusatory face, Renly's knowing glances, Sansa's quiet despair — she would have known, anyway. People are so easy.

Arthur Pendragon had been no different.

Cersei is no fool. The boy is fresh, young, eager to please; his desire to turn himself from a man to a legend is so all-encompassing that he was a natural choice for the Kingsguard. It doesn't hurt that his skill with a sword is rivaled only by Jaime, and he is perhaps even more adept than Loras Tyrell.

Cersei needed someone like him, a young knight with blood on his tongue and glory in his fantasies, someone to put his life on the line in her son's stead. Arthur Pendragon is easy to mold. He is at once necessary and disposable.

Pity if she has to get rid of him.

But no, Cersei thinks. She's getting ahead of herself. She had cause for concern shortly after his appointment to the Kingsguard, when one of her little birds reported to her…

"He was out in the yard, he was," the obviously aging woman had told her, perhaps a month ago. "Out with some of the squires and the like. And then some of the woman passed…"

Sansa had been among them, straight-backed but with her head bowed, Cersei is sure. Sansa carries herself like a lady, but her confidence has waned and her heart is tired. As her woman told her what she'd heard, Cersei could all but see it herself: A sun-washed lawn, streaked with the shadows of lords and ladies, squires and knights, servants and handmaidens. Arthur had taken off his helmet, drenched with sweat after a round of practice with his fellows.

"Laughing, they'd been," Cersei's woman had said. "Normal as anythin'. If it weren't for a moment later, why, Your Grace, I wouldn't have come to you at all."

And yet she had. Because apparently a moment later, Arthur had stopped laughing. In her mind's eye, Cersei could see the look on his face, as she'd seen it on so many men's faces — eyes glazed, jaw slackened, just a bit, Adam's apple bobbing as he spoke.

"Who on earth's that?" he'd asked, voice dazed as though he'd had the wind knocked from him.

Cersei's woman had followed his line of sight, a straight shot to the young wolf girl, the key to the North, her son's betrothed. A straight spine and bowed head, like a dying flower. Hair as red as the blood that spilled from her father's neck. A beauty who wished no longer to be a beauty, for what had beauty bought her?

Cersei knows the feeling well.

Arthur had gotten his answer — Sansa Stark, daughter of a dead traitor, sister to a false king. The Lannisters' bargaining chip. Their lady and future queen.

Cersei had worried. She had seen what a beautiful woman could do to an honorable man. She'd seen betrayals and wars spurred by soft skin and pretty smiles, brawls begun with curves, swords guided by the promise of what comes after a lady's favor. Cersei had seen better men than Arthur Pendragon fall at the feet of a porcelain angel.

But now, weeks later, Cersei's frets have subsided. Her eye stays sharp on the young knight, whose own eyes linger forever on his king's lady. When Sansa looks within ten feet of his way, his Adam's apple bobs the way Cersei imagined it had the first time. But he has not spoken to her, as far as Cersei knows, and his skill in the yard is too promising, too good, for Cersei to exile based on lingering gazes across the dining hall.

Joffrey has not noticed, and Sansa dare not betray him.

"How have you found your new Kingsguard?" Cersei asks her son.

"Suitable enough," Joffrey replies carelessly. He sits next to her on the veranda, slumping, legs splayed. "Doubtful any of them will drop dead on the battlefield."

"You should put one of them in charge of Sansa."

Joffrey snorts. "What for? She has her handmaidens."

"Handmaidens can't wield a sword should our enemies come to call."

"So? Let them have her. Perhaps then I will be granted a bride worthy of a king."

Cersei frowns. "Sansa is the only thing keeping Robb Stark and his band of Northerners from riding down and burning the Red Keep to a pile of rubble. She is all we have to give for your Uncle Jaime. Both Stannis and Renly would gladly keep her alive after they've slit our throats, and then who would win the war? The Starks, and whoever they ultimately choose to align themselves with. Don't allow them the satisfaction. Your pride will do you no good if you're dead."

"Fine." Joffrey sneers, displeased but unable to argue. Not that he cares enough about the Stark girl to bother arguing much either way, Cersei thinks. "Who would you have me give up? Ser Meryn?"

"No," Cersei says. "I don't trust Ser Meryn alone with her."

"Did you have someone in mind, then?"

"Ser Arthur, I think." Cersei watches her son's face and knows he's not keen on the suggestion. "He's fit to the task. Unlikely to fall to an enemy, and he'll do as he's told without argument."

"You'd have me give up such a knight?" Joffrey demands.

"It will please the North to hear their lady is under such protection. You'd be surprised what good that will do for us."

Joffrey waves a hand and says again, "Fine. Do it. But I expect to remain first priority."

"Of course, my love," Cersei assures him. She smiles — a small, tight-lipped twitch of her mouth. "Always."

She has seen what Arthur Pendragon wants, and she will dangle it in front of him. A test of loyalty, she thinks. Pity it may be, but she'll see him disposed of if he fails.

Cersei Lannister is a shrewd woman. She knows better than to trust anyone, harmless as they may seem.

Young Arthur will do well to keep his dreams of glory, and nothing else.


	4. Catch On to Weakness

**4.** **CATCH ON TO WEAKNESS**

* * *

Merlin is the one to deliver the news.

He wasn't chosen to carry it out — Cersei would have entrusted one of her own little birds to the task, but she's not the only one with little birds to begin with. And Merlin has a knack for being in the right place at the right time; not to mention he is actually rather well-liked among the serving class.

He broaches the topic as gracefully as he is able.

"Ser, I have something to tell you."

Arthur glances up at him as he ties his vest. "Well, you'd better get on with it, then."

"You're not going to like it."

"It wouldn't be the first time you told me something I don't want to hear," Arthur points out. "By now I don't expect anything else."

Merlin folds his hands in front of him, clasping his fingers tight. "I heard the queen talking the other day," he treads carefully, but he notices the sudden stiffness of Arthur's posture, anyway. "It's about the Lady Sansa."

Arthur clears his throat. "Go on, then, Merlin."

"The king is to redirect your duties. You'll be in charge of her — Lady Sansa, I mean, you'll still be a Kingsguard, but — "

"I _understand,_ Merlin," Arthur says to the ties on his vest. Ties that are already done up, Merlin notices, but Arthur continues to fuss with them as though they're not.

"What will you do?" Merlin asks.

"My duty to the king."

Merlin shakes his head a little. "You don't mean that. You can't. The queen is trying to trick you."

"And I won't let her succeed." Arthur finally straightens, shaking his arms out as if to get the blood flowing through them. "I took a vow. I will abide by it. And if it is my command, then I will guard Lady Sansa's life with my own."

"It's going to cost you a lot more than your life, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you."

Merlin bows his head. "No. I suppose you didn't."

Arthur undoes the button on his cuff, buttons it again. "I have to do this. It's my duty."

"So you said."

Silence settles between them. Arthur fidgets. Merlin waits. He knows Arthur better than anyone, and he knows that eventually Arthur will have to come to terms with the cards dealt here. Whether or not he speaks that truth aloud is another matter. King's Landing is no place for these truths — the city reeks of decay and fear, the Red Keep built of lies and deceit, eavesdropping shadows creeping around every corner.

They are not safe here. Arthur's white cloak cannot shield them from the danger that shrouds this castle.

Arthur knows this. He doesn't speak it aloud, but Merlin knows, just as well as he knows that Cersei's trickery cannot be withstood forever. Had she not meddled, had she just left well enough alone… Merlin shakes his head. Maybe then they would have stood a chance. Perhaps Arthur's duties would have overriden his desires. But Arthur is headstrong, and his heart makes him stupid, as hearts often do.

Merlin hopes that the Lady Sansa is clever enough to stay alive. Perhaps then Arthur will follow suit.


	5. How Do You Want Me?

**5.** **HOW DO YOU WANT ME?**

* * *

There's a knock at the door.

Sansa looks around at the sound, unsure. The only people who ever come to call are her handmaidens, and that knock didn't belong to any of them. Strong and sure, deliberate — not like the dainty taps that suit a maid's hand; it's not a terribly respectful knock.

Something so trivial would have irked her before. Now, though, what does it matter?

 _You're a stupid girl_ , she tells herself again, and wishes it were as true as it used to be. It was so much easier then.

The knock comes again, and this time Sansa answers.

Ser Arthur bows his head immediately. "Good morning, my lady. I hope I find you well."

"What are you doing here?" she blurts. Discourteous, she knows, but she can't help herself. The boy has a knack for showing up out of nowhere; what must she do to be rid of him, of everyone? Hasn't she been punished enough?

"My apologies." He inclines his head again. "I've come by order of the king."

Sansa's heart falls into her stomach. "I haven't done anything."

"I'm not here to punish you, my lady," Arthur says. It sounds as if the words pain him, although he tries to hide it. "I've been reassigned. The king wishes for you to have a personal guard."

 _Or the queen wishes to plant a spy, more like,_ Sansa thinks. Joffrey may not have any affection for her, but he doesn't think he capable of betrayal, no matter how often he wishes to punish her for her family's treasons. Cersei, on the other hand... Cersei doesn't trust a Stark. Nor should she.

"What do I need a personal guard for?"

"The crown has many enemies," Arthur tells her. "Should the castle be taken, there's no guarantee of your safety."

"And you'll protect me?" Sansa asks, and no matter her courtesies, there's no mistaking her skepticism. Given the chance, they'd all have her dead.

Arthur doesn't blink, doesn't miss a beat. "My life for yours, my lady."

Sansa's gaze lowers to her feet. His are only inches away. Hers clad in satin slippers, nearly invisible beneath the hem of her gown; his in leather boots, laced up to just beneath his knee. His hands are clasped in front of him, his sword strapped to his side.

"That's a vow for your king, ser." Sansa glances back up just in time to catch his jaw clench.

"And the king has sent me to you," he says. "My service is his to command. I do not challenge his orders."

"No, of course you wouldn't," she replies dryly, monotonously. Dutifully. Joffrey would not stand for her impertinence. Her fingers fidget with the doorframe as she continues, "Thank you for coming to me. I am honored to have your protection."

Arthur bows again, and Sansa is almost sick of seeing him do it. "The honor is mine."

"If it's not too bold to ask, ser, should I be expecting a siege?"

Arthur opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes shift for a moment before refocusing on her. "Always prepare for the worst," he says with a false note of joviality. His smile is weak until it settles once again into a flat, emotionless line. "You have nothing to fear."

 _Nothing to fear?_ Sansa almost laughs. The young knight is more naive than she.

Her voice is quiet when she tells him, "I fear there is everything. What do you know of this place you've come to, Ser Arthur?"

His mouth draws down, ever so slightly but Sansa notices. "I know you have suffered —"

"No." Sansa shakes her head. Her vision blurs before she can blink back the sudden onslaught of tears. She has said too much when she shouldn't have said anything at all; she should know better. "My father has suffered, and I have grieved. But I have been blessed. The queen is so kind, and my beloved Joffrey keeps me safe."

Arthur is quiet for a moment that stretches too long. And then, finally, "Of course. It was… inappropriate, for me to suggest otherwise. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive." Sansa looks to her feet again so he might not see her furious blinking. This is no time for weakness.

Quick and unexpected as the first time, Arthur has her hand in his, clenching her fingers gently but with determination. His grip is callused from swordplay. He must clutch his weapon as well as he takes her hand.

"I have been served to protect you," he reiterates as he raises her fingers to his lips, "and I promise that I will serve you well."

His mouth touches her knuckles. The contact is honorable, knightly, something Sansa used to dream about. He is sincere, unyielding, a man of his word… But he is the king's man, perhaps the queen's spy, and Sansa cannot afford to fall for such a spell.

The songs are liars, and they have made a fool of her too many times already. She will not play the victim.

"Thank you, ser," she says again. "You are an asset to the crown. A true man of honor."

 _Like my father,_ she thinks, _and yet not at all._

His fingers squeeze hers. "Thank you, my lady. I will not let you down."

Arthur releases her hand then, slowly, as if he is reluctant to do so, and Sansa closes the door.


	6. My Bones Call Out Your Name

**6.** **MY BONES CALL OUT YOUR NAME**

* * *

 _Courage. Fortitude. Discipline._

That's what it takes to be a great knight, a man of esteem, glory, of the Kingsguard — Arthur had said it himself. He could meet any man head-on in battle, fight with every limb numb and bleeding and still emerge victorious. He is a soldier, a knight, a man of honor.

And yet what good is his mantra now? Will a lack of discipline really be his undoing?

It's easy enough to think this when he's alone. But in the yard, the dining hall, an afternoon at court, every hour of his newly appointed duties, his scathing self-examination fails him.

She is too exquisite to avoid.

Beauty would have been one thing, Arthur is sure of it. He could handle a beautiful woman. But she is good, and graceful, and kind. Temperamental, but she hides it. She keeps her head bowed but her posture demands respect. Her hair is fire and her eyes are ice. She is resilient. A natural queen.

No knight is worthy of her. Nor is the king.

 _And there_ , Arthur thinks, _is your lack of discipline._

He can't help himself, but he does. He watches over her as she prays in the godswood and he does not go near her. He follows her wherever she walks but he does not walk with her. He trains in the yard and keeps one eye on the veranda where she sits. He stands guard outside her chambers but he will not touch her.

It is torture.

Merlin, for his part, is insufferable about it. They're out in the yard, Arthur slashing his sword against a heavy, hanging bag of sand, Merlin watching and broaching the same subject yet again.

"Talk to her," he says, as if it were such a simple matter. "I know you want to. You're a mess. Don't kill yourself over it."

"Weren't you the one who told me that this whole thing is some trick of the queen's?" Arthur reminds him. "I'm not going to play into her hands just because you think I'm miserable."

"I didn't tell you to, I don't know, to run off with her," Merlin argues. "But you can't keep hovering over her without saying anything. It's ridiculous — _you look_ ridiculous."

"I'm a Kingsguard assigned to protect her, not a gossip intended for her entertainment."

"You're a prat, is what you are."

Arthur releases one long, exasperated breath and lunges at the sack again. "You're worse than Lord Tyrion, and I don't need advice from either of you."

"Do you really think you look any less suspicious if you never speak to her?"

"I'm not worried about looking suspicious. I've got nothing to hide."

It's clear that Merlin's getting on his friend's last nerve, but he continues to press the issue, anyway. It's one thing for Arthur to avoid doing anything rash, and another to see Lady Sansa more defeated than ever. She is an innocent, and Merlin cannot bear to see such goodness suffer; he knows Arthur feels the same.

"She doesn't trust you," Merlin says. "She doesn't trust anyone, and you're not making it any easier by acting like an overbearing shadow."

"I. Don't. _Care_." Arthur slashes some more, beating the sack of sand with every inch of strength and patience he's got left. What does Merlin want from him? What does Tyrion expect, what is Cersei playing at? He knows the answers and he can do _nothing_ about them, and he'd rather not know anything at all. He is unfit for such games, unsuited for this life of servitude to a monster and his minions. If only he had known…

If he had known what sort of king he was serving. If he had known from the start that King's Landing was no place for him, that there was no honor or justice here. _Why_ couldn't he have known before it was too late to look back? He's disillusioned and yet still so bloody stupid.

It's too dangerous for this infatuation. And he knows it is so much more than that.

He hits the bag harder so that it swings on its rope. He stabs it in its heart and sand pours out in a heavy stream.

"Arthur —" Merlin begins, but it's too late. Arthur throws his sword down and rages.

"What would you have me do?" he bursts in a fit of temper. "How can I admit that — what is it you want me to say? That I think about her all the time? That I regret, _every day_ , taking the vows that keep me from her, but I know I wouldn't be anywhere near her without them? That I can't bear to see her hurt, that I'd kill for her, die for her? Is that what you want to hear?"

"I don't think you want anyone else to hear it, is the trouble."

"So just _shut up_ , Merlin." Arthur fetches his sword and sheaths it. He can't trust himself with a blade right now. "I can't bear to talk about it."

"You don't have to do anything about it."

"I _can't_ do anything about it," Arthur corrects him. "Nothing can ever happen between us. And it _hurts_ —" He shakes his head and turns away. "It hurts too much to admit that, to admit any of it."

Merlin is quiet. Perhaps he has gone too far, he thinks. But…

"You really care for her, don't you?"

Arthur rubs his eyes with forefinger and thumb. "I think I've made that clear. It's mad — I _don't_ _know_ her. I'm just… overwhelmed."

He sighs again, and squints as he looks off into the sun. "She's the only goodness I can see in this place. It's distracting. I don't know what I'm thinking half the time. But I —" He stops, shakes his head; he's going too far again and he has to stop himself. "I'm beginning to run my mouth as much as you do, Merlin. I don't want to lose my head for it."

"You won't lose your head for talking to her." Merlin shrugs a little, unsure of how far he should push now. "You promised to keep her safe, but she doesn't trust you to do it. If you want to be a man of your word, you'd better show her that you're better than the way you've been acting."

Arthur inhales, steeling himself, and it nearly rips his chest apart. He'd promised to serve her, to protect her, on the order of a king who wouldn't do the same. Arthur had insisted to Tyrion before that it wouldn't come to a choice between the king and his lady, but now… How could it not? He is sworn to protect them both, but what of protecting _her_ from _him_?

What will his vows come to then?

He can't say. This is the kind of not knowing that he can't afford — the kind of not knowing that isn't so much blissful ignorance as it is a death wish.

But Merlin is right. Arthur knows he can't continue to shadow the Lady Sansa without speaking to her as well. He looks foolish, untrustworthy, and what sort of knight is too afraid to speak to a lady? Isn't that the sort of thing that knights are made for?

He will not allow Cersei the satisfaction of playing with him, and no amount of vigilance will convince her that she's not right in her suspicions. He will hold his head high the way he was taught to do, and he will carry out his duties, no matter what those duties come to be. He will relieve the Lady Sansa's fears, make her feel safe the way a knight is meant to do.

She will have a friend in King's Landing, he swears to himself, and he won't waste another moment.

"Arthur?" Merlin calls after him as he strides away from the yard. "Where are you going?"

"To deal with you being right," Arthur calls back, and he swears he can hear Merlin chuckle. What a strange sound in such an unhappy place — but darkness can't linger forever, can it?

He finds Lady Sansa in the godswood. She sits there often, and he wonders if she ever prays. He suspects not, and so has no qualms with sitting beside her; he's sure he's not interrupting anything.

"Ser Arthur," she greets him in a resigned sort of way.

"My lady. I've come to apologize."

One of Sansa's eyebrows quirks upward. "Again?"

"Well… yes." Arthur tilts his head in acknowledgement. He apologizes to her quite a bit, doesn't he? "I fear I haven't been the most attentive of guards."

"I'm still alive, aren't I?" Sansa points out, and sounds woefully sorry about the fact. Arthur hears the crack in her voice that few others bother to notice.

"Yes," he allows, "but I fear also that you don't want to be."

"It doesn't matter. My father is dead and my sister…" Sansa swallows. "My sister has fled. Perhaps she is dead, too. I will marry the king, and this rift between our families can heal. It is my duty."

"Yes," Arthur says again. He watches her watch the pond, reflected with the swaying red leaves of the weirwood tree. "I know a little something about duty."

"You are a faithful knight, ser," she observes. "Forgive me if don't trust in you accordingly."

"My own fault, in part. I haven't given you any reason to trust me."

"Even if you had…" Sansa's gaze flicks up, toward the towering, gnarled branches where a raven sits and calls. "Little birds are everywhere. And even though — the queen calls me 'little dove,' and I still can't believe a word from any of them. It doesn't matter."

Arthur's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

Sansa bows her head and shakes it. "Nothing. I don't mean anything at all."

"My lady, please —"

"I've finished my prayers." She rises from her seat and turns to face him, her smile one of courtesy and falsehood. "I didn't sleep well last night, I'm afraid. Would you mind escorting me back to my chambers?"

Her eyes plead to run away, and Arthur cannot refuse her.

"Yes, of course." He stands as well, and takes her arm. His fingers touch the bare skin of her wrist. She is cold as death. "I am yours to command."

He had told Lord Tyrion that there would be no choice between the king and his lady. But as Arthur guides her along the winding paths of the Red Keep's gardens, he fears that he has made the choice, anyway.

His vows are for life. And already he fantasizes about breaking them.

What sort of knight is he?


End file.
